


Babes and Scythes

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Maka the Scythe Otaku
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s a sexy scythe,” she sighed longingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babes and Scythes

“Soul – Soul, look at this.”

He grunted, wiggled and shuffled enough to prop his chin over her shoulder and stared down at the magazine she had sprawled over her lap. He was zero parts surprised to find that she was ogling a weapon magazine – only in Death City – and tapping at a picture of a scythe,  _of fucking course_ , with all of the gusto and enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store, or maybe Black*Star the first time he realized the internet could be used for porn.

“That’s a sexy scythe,” she sighed longingly. “Look at the shape of that chine. Gorgeous.”

He squinted. Chine? Sexy? All he could see from beneath the tapping of her finger was a grayscale blade and a long handle, and dammit all if he didn’t know the technical terms for his own anatomy; he knew he had a handle and a blade, knew he was sharp on one end and knew the other was hard to refer to without sounding phallic or inherently sexual.

He huffed. “Your nerd is showing.”

“Shut up. It’s such a brilliantly curved beard, too. A good angle for mowing,” she murmured, eyes bright with only the sort of ardor that Maka Albarn, second generation scythe meister, could muster. “And the snaith is so long.”

“My snaith is long,” he pouted.

She snorted and turned her head, nose bumping against his cheek. “Do you even know what a snaith is?”

“… Yeah. My long part.”

She clicked her tongue, smiled with the briefest hint of pretension and resembled his mother too much for his own comfort  ( _yes, dear, whatever you say_ ). She patted his cheek and sighed. “Your snaith would be your handle, mister Death Scythe.”

He bunched up his nose. “What, my shaft?” He grinned as she squeaked indignantly. “My shaft is long. Maka, I have a long shaft. You  _like_ my shaft.”

She had the grace to huff, shove his face away and wiggle herself away from her seat between his legs. She shuffled to the other side of the couch and held her magazine in her lap firmly, lips curled into a pouty ferocity that had his blood buzzing and certain  _other_  parts of his anatomy that could be considered _shaft-like_  twitching.

“I think,” she began, brows furrowing, “that maybe you’re twisting my words.”

“I don’t. You’ve said it before. I’m your favorite scythe,” he moaned dramatically, smothering a hand over his chest and fluttering his lashes at her. She gasped and snarled right at him, all big green eyes and baby face, and he laughed and crawled his way over to her. “You grip my shaft all the time.”

“Soul, I don’t like that double entendre.”

His hands slid onto either side of her hips and he grinned slowly, lazily, easy half smile quirking and earning himself a delightful quirk of her brows and hazy pink that bloomed across her cheeks. She bunched up her knees and crushed the magazine to her chest. He could hear the sound of the paper crinkling and crushing as he brushed her hair behind her ear and chortled lowly.

Goosebumps erupted along the curve of her shoulder and under the slim strap of her cami. It was a little rewarding and a lot exciting, and he pursed his lips and watched her eyes follow the motion.

“… Maka,” he murmured, voice gravelly.

She regarded him hesitantly. “… What?”

“Polish my shaft. Wield me, meister.”

He hit the ground with a grunt and rubbed his cheek; her knee was going to leave a bruise and he totally deserved it, he realized, but it was totally worth the look she sent him afterward – bothered, embarrassed, but totally and noticeably aroused as she stood, shoulders back, and marched down the hall toward  _his_ room.

He followed her like the faithful dog he was, scampering to his feet and letting the door slam behind him.


End file.
